Alexei Kunetzov heard the crunch of the snow beneath his boots as he walked along a hiking path, a rhythmic "Chrk chrk" as he made his way towards the grand estate of Pavel Aleksandrov, a Colonel General and Chief of the General Staff of the Trigunian Armed Forces. A noted monarchist, he had pursued harsh actions against operatives in the Red Hand. He had to be "relieved" of his duties, effective immediately. He was nearing the backyard, and could see it through a gap of trees in the forest he traversed. The backpack he was carrying merely consisted of a case with a pistol in it, along with a silencer. There was a river separating one side of the land from the other. If he jumped it, he could make it over, and hop a fence, dropping him right in his backyard. He took a running jump and made it, nearly dipping his right foot into the icy cold water. Some of it splashed onto his heel. "Damnit, will have to drop my boots at the door. Already make enough noise, now one of them will squeak. Couldn't they have given me something... Lighter? Oh well." He took a knee right before the last of the trees opened out into the fenceline and took off his backpack, opening the case. He brandished the pistol they gave him in his gloved hands. He removed the silencer from the foam holding it, and screwed it on. He then looked across the back of the Colonel General's estate, and made a dash for the backdoor. He must've run about one football field's worth. He cursed under his breath. "Damn bourgeois and their need... For vast backyards!" He took off his boots at the backdoor and quietly opened the door, being greeted with a pleasant warmth. The room he found himself in was the kitchen, the room alone being bigger than his apartment downtown. He heard classical music one floor above him, and muffled muttering, along with a faint flutter of papers. "Must be the study. That's where they told me I'd find him." He quietly shuffled from the kitchen into the foyer, holding the silenced pistol tightly in his gloved hands, his socks somewhat muffling his footsteps. As he made his way up the stairs, his forehead began to form beads of sweat, and his hands began to tremble. This was the first time he had been tasked with assassinating a monarchist before, and despite being run through training several times, the real thing was always more nerve-racking. He found himself at a hallway, with the music being more prominent at the left side. He continued to the left, finding a room spilling light out into the end of the hall. He placed himself near the threshold, the gun close to his head, sweat beginning to trickle down his forehead. He took a brief glance inside, and saw Aleksandrov plunged deep into a stack of papers, studying them intently. His study was also larger than Kunetzov's apartment, with the centerpiece of his room being what seemed like a military map of Trigunia, showcasing current military personnel on each of the islands, as well as the locations of military bases, and even a few bunkers. The Red Hand told Kunetzov to make it seem like a suicide, so a forehead shot would seem the most plausible to the police to assume such. He wanted to yell at him to divert his attention, but his expression would be changed, making it seem more like a murder. He waited for the man to do something that would get a good shot at his forehead. From the corner of his eye, Kunetzov saw the man raise his head and grab at his nose, most likely relieving himself of a runny nose. "This is my chance. Death to you, bourgeois!" He snapped around the corner and aimed quickly, seeing Aleksandrov begin to raise his eyebrows, disoriented but rapidly realizing what was about to happen. Despite only lasting some two to three seconds, Kunetzov felt as if it lasted an eternity. He had done it. He nailed a perfect forehead shot, with the round trailing out the back of his head, splattering blood onto the wall behind him and some window curtains, before embedding itself in the window's wooden frame. He saw him slump downward and his head fall sideways onto the papers he was studying, a pool of blood soaking them and expanding out onto the large wooden table. And after that, the room was still. The music was still playing, with the smell of gunsmoke lingering around the room. The assassin took off his backpack once more, and opened the case, screwing off the silencer quickly before he burned his glove from the extreme heat, and walked over to the lifeless mass that was previously the most powerful man in the Trigunian Armed Forces. He placed the pistol in his left hand, and packed up his things before moving over to the military map. He took out a burner phone that they gave him to use in emergencies, and snapped a few photos of the information presented there. He followed it up with a text message reading "Thought I'd need to show this to you. Would certainly aid in our takeover in strategic positions during the revolution." Kunetzov slinked his way downstairs and exited as he came. He stopped at the kitchen and swiped himself a bottle of water from the fridge, opened the back door, put his boots back on, and began walking towards the hiking path, his feet being greeted once more by that familiar "Chrk Chrk".

ZSS Surveyor, Green Sea, 89 nautical miles west of TriguniaCaptain Misho Arabidze walked out into the brisk air of Northern Terra. The waves were calm which was a relief but there was a stinging cold to be had. But he had a mission to oversee of vital importance. Most of the crew had no idea what the real mission was. They thought and believed the public release, that the ZSS Surveyor was an oceanic research vessel, charting deep sea features and what not. And that was true. There was a dedicated team working on that mission and performing valuable work on that front. But there was a more highly classified purpose of the vessel: intelligence collection. No one would suspect a simple vessel conducting a complex communications intelligence mission. A small compartment in the bottom of the vessel was the real nerve center of the whole operation where up to 18 operators expertly worked their equipment. They sucked in every radio wave, communications signal, everything here and there. It had a main mission: focus on Trigunia. The country was emerging as a major national security concern for the Republic. But for now nothing major was being planned. No new missions just collection for now.

Alexei Kunetzov woke up bathed in darkness. For the past several months, it has been all he has ever known. Immediately after the decimating defeat of the ATCP in the elections, the party disbanded and the state strengthened its grip on the people. He subsequently went into hiding, but was eventually captured and sentenced to a large rap sheet, most convictions they got right, such as the murder of Colonel General Aleksandrov, which the military still withheld from the public, the destruction of government property, with his infiltration of the server farm, crimes against the state, and a few others the bourgeois scum threw in just for the hell of it. The then 23-year old man is now 36, with weathered hands from doing occasional labor for the prison, when he was allowed to do so, of course. For over 13 years, he has been held here, although he doesn't know why. For such a long list of crimes, he should be fertilizer by now. But for some reason his sentence was commuted to life imprisonment at a high-security penitentiary. Months before his seclusion in darkness, he had a normal cell like all the other dissidents, but had his privileges revoked after a fit of rage erupted from him during the prison's regularly scheduled lunch cycle. He had heard another inmate had beaten a communist supporter to death, and Kunetzov proceeded to beat the man within an inch of his life with a cafeteria tray. From then on days have been gruelingly monotonous. Awaking in pure darkness, catching glimpses of fleeting light when food is given to him, only to become bathed in the black abyss once more. But today is different. He awoke later than usual, but this is not out of the ordinary. He had learned to approximate his typical wakeup time but not always catching it. He was caught off by the sound of faint footsteps and murmuring outside the door. Soon they became louder, almost thunderous, and the voices had become louder, but not shouting. More along the lines of a stern conversation. Both the footsteps and idle talk stop at his door. His door is opened, enveloping the room in light, causing him to recoil, like a rat, to not burn his retinas. Three men stood in front of the threshold, but he was too busy with readjusting to the light to notice their features, save for the one in the center—A stone-faced man of whom he assumed was in his late 40s. He could make out his shoulderboards, as they shone brightly beneath the light. A Polkóvnik—Colonel. "Wake up, scum." Kunetzov continued to remained curled up in a ball, slowly warming himself up to the bright fluorescent lights. Evidently growing impatient, the colonel walked into his cell and gave him a swift kick in the gut. Kunetzov howled in pain. "I said, wake up! You're being released!" Kunetzov looked at the man and jumped to his feet. The sentence alone was enough to make him forget the pain he had just been given. He was dumbfounded. "This is just a trick," he thought. "They're just going to lead me out with the promise of freedom and place a bullet in the back of my head." Feeling as though the answer was obvious, he still asked, sheepishly, "W—Why, and... How?" The colonel said nothing, only offering him a hand gesture for him to come with him. He walked out of his cell for the first time in what seemed like forever, continuing down the grey, metallic walls before seeing another officer to collect his items that had been confiscated from him when he was first processed, all that time ago. The things he brought with him were very few. His wallet, a switchblade with a hammer and sickle engraved on the grip, and a membership card for the ATCP. As he was handed the faded card, the officer laughed at him, remarking "Could probably sell that old relic online, for a few Rabols. Hah!" Kunetzov faintly scoffed, and he was about to make his way onto the prison grounds when he was again stopped by the Colonel. "I can't understand why such a criminal like you is being released, but obviously the government doesn't see a need to keep you here anymore. You're free to go, although I wish they'd tell me why." He then gave him a pat on the shoulder, whispering into his ear: "You can thank the Red Hand for this. You are free, comrade. Glory to the revolution." Yet again he found himself dumbfounded. Kunetzov had obviously been freed by an agent of the Red Hand, likely calling themselves that again due to the ATCP's dissolution long ago. They must want him once more. He walked out to the prison grounds and headed for the parking lot, seeing and feeling the outside world once more. Brisk wind tousled leaves across the asphalt, snow had been shoveled off sidewalks and the parking lot. He headed for a bus stop and then sat there in the cold, waiting to return to his warm apartment in Rodshyadam and meet up with some old friends.

Pouring the last drop from his bottle of baiju, Xi Huanyu felt a wave of disgust wash over his body when his eyes met a reflection of himself in the glass. This feeling prompted Huanyu to finish the drink in one-shot. Just as he slammed his glass on the table, the sliding door to the small and dank back-alley bar crashed against its frame as Li Deming, a fellow former Imperial servant stood in the entrance. Closing his umbrella, he walked over to Huanyu's table and inspected the bottle. "Couldn't wait?" Deming asked, with a smirk, before calling for another bottle.

"Thirty-six years." Huanyu said, trying to control his voice from wavering. "Thirty-six years I worked for His Imperial Majesty, and now I'm here." Indeed, Xi Huanyu was one of the earliest supporters of the Emperor, having joined in his procession to the Capital in 4338. At twenty, Xi Huanyu had been studying to take his public service exams, desperately hoping to become the first in his family to break the cycle of poverty they had found themselves in after the establishment of the Fourth Republic.

Huanyu's family had served as Palace bureaucrats for nearly 400 years during the He Dynasty. However, after the death of the last He Emperor, Wu Ren, Indrala decided to become a republic. In the new political and social order, the Xi family was devoid of its former prestige and prosperity, relegated to a position almost below that of the average Indralan.

Thus, it was during his time studying that Huanyu felt inspired by the Dawei Miracle and the Sun Clan's claim to the throne. Seeing it as both an opportunity to restore his family's honour and the nation's dignity, Huanyu dropped out of his studies and worked twenty-hours a day to organize spontaneous rallies in support of the Sun Clan across the nation. Sun Yijun's father, Sun Luhan, personally recognized young Huanyu's skill and dedication such that following Sun Yijun's ascension to the throne, he suggested the appointment of Huanyu to the position of Chief Secretary of Imperial Household Agency. The Emperor accepted the suggestion.

"It can't be helped," Deming said as he opened the second bottle, pouring a drink for the two of them. "When you're a constitutional monarch, you're always at the mercy of the masses."

How it leaked, Huanyu has no idea. Nonetheless, the Impenetrable City had been pried open by the eyes of the nation. What a story! The handsome young prince, first in line to the Throne had fallen in love with a lowly (and in Huanyu's eyes, opportunistic) farmer's daughter. However, this beautiful and fantastic love story was being thwarted by the evil and conspiring palace staff. How horrible!

"Still, is there no respect for tradition?" Huanyu shouted more than he asked, "should Imperial blood really get mixed with dirt?"

"It's the way it is these days," Deming sighed, "with all the communists and secularists around."

It wasn't the first time a Sun Clan man's heart had wandered. Prince Kai, never having married, was known to surround himself with women at his residence. Huanyu secured a number of non-disclosure agreements from Prince Wanjun's girlfriends, including a number of prominent entertainment figures. This never concerned Huanyu much, however; there is a difference between playing and being serious, he thought. Thus, he wasn't much concerned when Prince Yinju began to talk about that wench in the beginning. Perhaps he should have been.

"So now we can expect that this prostitute is going to become the Empress, hmm?" Huanyu said as his temper continued to rise.

"Looks that way, unless something is done." Deming responded matter-of-factually while staring at his glass.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, we could make sure she never made it to Tian'an."

Huanyu groaned. "You don't think the NPA will be surrounding her 24/7? Especially after Tang Fangwei's plans were discovered?"

Huanyu was referring to a servant who likewise had been plotting against the farmer's daughter. When his plot was discovered, the Crown Prince demanded that Tang be arrested before he got to the servants wing (a twenty minute walk), otherwise the Crown Prince would kill him. Tang's co-conspirators tried to smuggle him out of the palace, but the police officers had arrived just before he could leave. Now Tang Fangwei was rotting in a jail cell.

"You're right. Well then, there is a very drastic solution. But I can't really bring myself to say it." Deming responded. Huanyu had a sense of what he meant, but needed to hear it.

"Listen, I've had a lot more than you to drink tonight, so it's easy for me to forget. Speak freely."

"Well," Deming stumbled, "we could... well, you know... uh... well, Prince Wanjun is next in line, after Yinju of course..."

Huanyu instinctually clenched his fist at the suggestion of such treason. However, what had been unthinkable rapidly becomes more acceptable to him. Perhaps it was because he felt mad at the Emperor for casting him and so many of his colleagues to the curb. Perhaps it his anger toward the breach in tradition. Either way, he found himself in a position he never imagined.

"H-how?" Huanyu stuttered.

Deming had been expecting a blow to the face, but nonetheless had the air knocked out of his lungs. He had been able to gain the support of one of the most staunch monarchists in Indrala. And without revealing his true identity.

"Well... there are a number of options, I suppose..." Deming stammered, trying to hide his sheer feeling of exhilaration. The Republican Movement has just gained an unknowing accomplice. Using tradition against the traditionalists, he thought, interesting.

The sound of ruffling fabric filled the marble-laden Hall of Imposing Virtue as robed Imperial Court officials shuffled into position. Despite the Jiaozhi Miracle pushing Indrala into the furthest reaches of technological development, modern electronics as well as western-style business suits and haircuts were strictly forbidden. Officials settled into their predetermined positions on the right and left of the chamber.

Though one would never say it out-loud, many of the officials often privately reflected on the futility of these meetings; it's not as though the Emperor has any political power. Nonetheless, his position as the Son of Heaven, the direct link between heaven and earth, commanded their complete veneration. After a moment, Emperor Yijun silently entered the hall taking his seat upon the throne. Upon his entrance, the officials dropped to the floor almost as one and shouted: "May the Emperor live and reign for ten thousand years, ten thousand years, ten thousand of ten thousand years!"

The officials had been gathered that morning to discuss the various university proposals the Emperor had put forward early in the spring. The Imperial Palace had been working diligently to secure funding for these new institutions from private organizations and individuals, so as to demonstrate the Emperor's dedication to education. All the officials deferentially stared at the floor while speaking to the Emperor. However, as the Chief Secretary of the Imperial Household Agency spoke, the sudden stumbling of an official into the centre of the hall directly in front of the Emperor caught everyone's attention.

Sweating and visibly nervous, the official spoke, gripping the silk panels of his robe. "Your Imperial Majesty," he stuttered. Two other officials rushed to grab him out of humiliation, but with a subtle, yet graceful motion of his wrist, the Emperor dismissed them. "Your Imperial Majesty, Heaven has selected you to reign over all Under Heaven and carried by the earth. Of this, there is no doubt."

"These truths told, the actions undertaken with regard to the Imperial Household conflict with your holy intent," the Official said, gathering more courage. "Although Your Imperial Majesty has promulgated an edict confirming the Crown Prince's marriage, and though this marriage has occurred, this subject dares not follow your imperial order. How can this be rectified?"

The officials in the Hall of Imposing Virtue could not believe their ears; an official of the Imperial Court being completely and directly insubordinate to the Son of Heaven. Ever the philosopher, the Emperor began to attempt an answer to the Official's question before he was disrupted by a sliver of light flashing across the ornate ceiling, a reflection from the Official's drawn dagger.

"Protect the Emperor!" shouted the Imperial Guards in unison, drawing their swords and surrounding the Son of Heaven. Additional guards tiled the doors, equipped with assault rifles -- the security of the holiest man in Indrala necessitated the use of some modern technology.

"Your Imperial Majesty. Unwilling to acknowledge your profound directives, I am a treasonous pig. But I must speak my mind; I fear that evil spirits are surrounding this sacred space, and that the Crown Prince, in his failings, has been possessed by this such spirits," said the Official.

"Silence!" shouted the Emperor, startling the other gathered officials. However, having already committed grave sins against the Son of Heaven, the Official had nothing to lose by continuing.

"Not prepared to watch the decline of this prosperous era, nor live with myself after having expressed such treasonous thoughts, there is only one action left to take," he said, raising his dagger to the air, "I must--"

The official was cut short by a bullet to the back of his head. The crack of the rifle startled not just those near to the Official, but if anyone had dared to look directly at the Emperor, they would have noticed the sheer expression of horror and shock across his ordinarily stoic and emotionless face.

Alexei Kunetzov entered his office and set his coat on a rack near the door, then paused. Someone had drawn those infernal blinds behind his desk, letting in the midday light. Of course it was overcast, as is typical weather in Rodshyadam, but he preferred the light of fluorescent bulbs as opposed to that of the sun. His vision was starting to go, it had seemed. That's what I get for being over 55 years old. He withdrew the blinds and sat down, opening a drawer on the left where his cigarettes were. Pulling one out he took a lighter out of his suit pocket and lit it. Dragging out a long puff of smoke, he checked the various papers on the desk. He couldn't help but smirk—This was the same building he had infiltrated over 33 years ago, under a false name and disguise. The monarchistic government never did reveal his actions all those years ago. But now he was the leader of the Ministry of Internal Affairs, as well as the Chairman of the Ministry of State Security. Beat that, monarchists! Ha! He took another short drag of his cigarette and placed it in an ashtray, its smoke slowly undulating towards the ceiling. Suddenly the phone rang. He shifted some papers out of the way and answered it. "Comrade Kunetzov, there are some resistance fighters from the Liga de Comunistas de Egelion here. A Mr. de Santos would like to speak with you." A bit annoyed, he furrowed his brow. Can't this be reserved for the Ministry of Defense? He thought. "Very well. What might it be about?" Kunetzov began reaching for the cigarette again. "It is regarding a possible civil war in Egelion against their fascist regime. He requests more men to be trained under our organization." Alexei paused, blowing smoke out his nose. "Send him in right away." Hanging up, he extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray. Kunetzov twiddled his thumbs for a short moment before his door opened. Several men in improvised combat gear walked into his office. They were somewhat cleaned up, although their faces were a bit dirty. They must've come straight from Egelion. He motioned for them to sit and offered them cigarettes. When they declined, he placed them back in the drawer. Clearing his throat, he spoke to them. "We've already committed to sending supplies and volunteers by way of our paramilitary organization to help you. We just finalized joint military exercises between them and the Trigunian Armed Forces this October, I believe. I hear that you wish for more men to be trained by our organization. Why so?" A bearded man wearing a beret seated in the center spoke up. He seemed to be the leader. "We have men who are willing to die for the cause, but perhaps we need more men. As oppressive as those fascists are, we request that you train more of our people to fight them." Kunetzov furrowed his brow once more. "We shall consider it." The bearded man's eyes widened. "But you can't be serious. Our people are continuing to be oppr—" Kunetzov interrupted him. "Our resources are stretched thin. We will give you as much supplies as we can muster. The men of yours we have already trained can assist them back over there. It is already confirmed that we will be sending members of our own paramilitary organization over there to assist you, hence the joint military exercises. By sending the Workers Defense Militia, we prevent this revolution becoming an international conflict, mostly. There's no doubt that the Northern Council will try to intervene, I guarantee it. Hopefully if your comrades fight with all their might then we might topple the current dictatorship and call off the NC from Egelion. If they do, it'd be a huge victory for us, and an international embarrassment for them." The leader was seemingly annoyed, but looked like he understood. "I understand. We shall continue to accept supply and arm shipments when they become available to us. But for now, hasta la victoria siempre. Ever onward to victory." "Da, tovarishch." He shook each of the men's hands and let them exit his office. He closed the door, let out a lengthy sigh, and shut the light off. He walked back to his desk and opened the drawer again. Lighting another cigarette, he took out a long drag. Blowing smoke towards the ceiling, he placed it back into the ashtray, watching the smoke undulate, and watching the embers dance at the tip. He leaned back in his chair and cupped his hands behind his head.

Big things are bound for Trigunia. I can feel it. But I know a war would destroy what we've built here. Luckily we've got Foreign Minister Ignatov. This could fail, I damn well know that. But if it succeeds, it'd be a slap in the face to Kazulia. They'd be a laughingstock. Besides, even if Trigunian men and women are out there on the front lines of Egelion's revolution, they're not part of the army. All the Northern Council can do is bitch and moan. Regardless of what happens, we'll likely get a slap on the wrist. But that begs the question of the formation of a military alliance with other socialist nations like Foreign Minister Ignatov has spoken about. Eh, I suppose time will be the ultimate decider in these matters.

Kunetzov took one more drag of his cigarette and extinguished it, watching the last trail of smoke lead up into the ceiling.

Serious business was going on here, serious business indeed. It is not to say that everyone there knew it or needed it, but all that could be said everyone was trying to stop it in their own little way. For every person within the Comrade Leonid Hall of the Presidium Concert, the dualism within the atmosphere was almost unbearable. There were mainly Trigunians and Kazulians and in the culture of “Trigunian dominance” they had been marginalised with an almost supremacist undertone. On one side were the Trigunians. One could discern them easily from their seemingly forced posture, the ready robotic smiles. At this event, they were the superior folk; they knew it and they let everyone know it through their demeanour. On the other were the Kazulians. Their better than regional average clothing and almost uncomfortable posture could easily separate them from the others. And right in the centre, the Politicians. From both ends their better than average clothing, fixed smiles and erected stances even posterior to the many alcoholic toasts; prompted them to develop the perception that they were the masters—the head and not the tail. Their almost condescending undertones affirmed that they strongly believed themselves to be the puppet masters. A regular observer could highlight the differences in the Trigunians and the Kazulians. Whereas the Kazulians lingered in the backgrounds from an almost detached distance from their Ambassador, the Trigunians hung close to their master to show their loyalty to the party and to form a buffer between them and their Kazulianisk-speaking counterparts. In the “shadows” stood those whom no-one could identify in any easy, effortless way. These were the cat and mice, the spies and the counter-intelligence agents who actively hunted them. They were here to stay. Anyone could tell you about the spies of Rodshyadam. If you met with someone “from out of town” on a regular basis, it was the contemporary gesture to report it. Long gone were the days of the GBD’s almost god-like control of information. Times have changed, however, Trigunia was still Trigunia. It’s uneagerness to kowtow to external ideologies is what sets it aside from the nations which surround it. It is no wonder it is given the name “Fortress Trigunia”. Most of the people in the room knew about it and thought about it. To the Kazulians it was almost amusing. They knew that they were quasi-thought to be agents of espionage by the trigunian government. Most likely it never crossed the minds of the Trigunians that most of the Kazulians were simply themselves; agricultural, linguistics experts and more. However, one could not blame them for such a conclusion. There existed a time when the streets of Rodshyadam ran wild with the ghost like movements of spies from all corners of the world.

“Which ones were the spies,” Rasmus thought to himself. “And how did you find our great city Mr. Bentson?” a Trigunian asked. Rasmus turned from his inspection of the selection of traditional goodies and liquor. “Cold and Gloomy I’m afraid,” Rasmus answered after a sip of his iced tonic. “It is not to say we have been able to see much.” The Kazulian delegation had only arrived three days prior on the demands of Ambassador Osmundsen. “That is very bad,” Karl Krupin said disappointingly. “Indeed” Rasmus agreed. “If I had only known that it would have been this cold, I would have brought something more fitting.” Rasmus shrugged as Karl scrutinised his minimalist suit from head to toe. “Remind me what is it you do again Mr. Bentson?” Karl served. “I do agricultural consulting for the Ambassador; you know informing him on the agricultural practices here and helping him bridge our techniques with yours.” Rasmus explained being mindful not to mess up his pre-planned explanation. “Ah yes, our agriculture, our means of production.” Karl championed. “It is vital that we protect it from unauthorised external interference.” That was it. Rasmus thought as a thin smile appeared on his face. Karl was MGB. Agricultural and Crop security in Kazulia was a matter handled by the Department of Food and Agriculture, however in Trigunia Agriculture and Crop security had earned itself an entire department within the Trigunian Ministry of State Security known as Directorate G. Rasmus could tell whether he was actually from Directorate G or some other under the books directorate, but he knew for certain that Karl Krupin was MGB. “What is your government’s positions for reduced troop numbers in the region?” Krupin’s voice became more guarded as they begun to discuss the bread and butter of the Trigunian position. “I never got why your government is so dependent on agriculture.” “Reliability and tradition as you well know.” “Technology is reliable.” Rasmus baited him as he took another sip of his tonic whilst he scanned the room’s vintage architecture. But Rasmus was not the only person admiring the aesthetics. “So Vitaly, what do you think of the Kazulians?” Foreign Minister Ignatov turned to ask his aide. “They are so pale.” The Aide observed. “That is because of capitalism, it sucks the soul out of them.” The Minister said in that stipulation. “I see.” The aide agreed. “Ah, Minister Ignatov and Mr. Timoshenko.” Ambassador Osmundsen said in Rodshyan. “Ah yes, Ambassador Osmundsen.” Ignatov shook her hand followed by a slight nod from Vitaly.

“I have never seen such architecture, not even back home.” She gushed. “These floors and the art work, it feels wrong to walk on them.” “You never had the Tsars which was your good fortune, Ignatov replied like a good Leonidist. “But I must admit I am proud of their artistic sense.” “And how is your daughter, Viktoria, Mr. Timoshenko?” Vitaly went ridged for a moment. Ignatov answered for him. “Viktoria died two weeks ago.” “Oh, Mr. Timoshenko I am so sorry.” Ambassador Osmundsen said and she really was. “I cannot be mad with you, love your children dearly Mrs. Osmundsen, you may not have them forever. If you will excuse me for a moment.” Vitaly moved off in the direction of the restrooms. Mrs. Osmundsen turned to the Minister, anguish covering her face. “I didn’t mean...”. “You could not have known.” Ignatov broke in. Vitaly found the restroom after a minute. Kazulians and Trigunia were of course sent to separate restrooms and Vitaly was alone in what could have been the powdering room of a Courtier. He washed his hands and stared at the mirror. He thought: “Another mission.” He left off a sigh before he was back out in the hall. As he sped out he bumped into Rasmus who almost spilt his drink. In a frantic gesture, Vitaly said something in Rodshyan that sounded almost apologetic. “Who is that asshole?” Rasmus murmured. “Comrade Vitaly Timoshenko, the Foreign Minister’s personal aide. I am sure he didn’t mean it.” Krupin reassured. Two more bottles of tonic and it was midnight. Rasmus got into what he thought was a fourth private hire vehicle or was it the fifth? Either way it wasn’t important now. Nobody spoke on the way back to the embassy. You didn’t talk in cars in Rodshyadam in the first place. They were far too easy for some techno-wiz in the MGB to bug. Nonetheless it didn’t stop Rasmus from thinking as to the meaning of the banquet. He thought back on his ready-made response to Kurpin on the premise of his work, “Agricultural consulting… good one.” It should be noted Rasmus had little to no knowledge on agriculture. He was born in the city and the closest thing to agriculture were the parks that littered metropolitan Skalm. By now Kurpin was already back at MGB Headquarters making his own notes under the dim light of his trusted reading lamp. “Bentson,” he noted. “Is a man with considerable knowledge in his field. Although preliminary psychological evolution does not suggest him to be a threat to the Transitional Republic, attention should still be paid.” The intelligence officer set down his pen and passed his hands through his grey coarse hair. He wondered why the government had made the decision to meet with the Kazulians to discuss Egelion. He continuously asked himself: whom was trying to out flank whom. Was there something the Kazulians knew that we didn’t? The officer frowned but then reminded himself that there were many things he knew that the Kazulians did not. To him, it was all a part of the grand idea…the bigger picture.

Rasmus laid in the couch of the embassy’s waiting room for it had been the only one that could compensate for his almost towering height and he surrendered to the fatigued that had all but enveloped him. Thirty minutes later a hand shock his leg. “Skalm wants to talk to you.” An embassy staffer said. “Don’t they sleep?” he growled. On an encrypted telephone with a direct line to SESO headquarters in Skalm, Director Westergaard waited. “Yes sir?” “I’ve been just briefed on a developing situation.” Westergaard skipped the preliminaries. “The Trigunians have just launched their clandestine campaign in Egelion, although we’ve deploys assets, there is still information that needs to be obtained. You will meet with a friend of mine, codename SHEPHERD. He will give you what I need.” The Central Committee for Intelligence and Special Operations had maintained a network of husband-wife teams in Trigunia for decades but the longest running, longest-lived, most productive agent-in-place was no other than Mr. Vitaly Timoshenko and the late Mrs. Evelina Timoshenko, codenamed SHEPHERD and SHEPERDESS respectively. The names were considerably secret as only 5 persons within the agency knew that it meant more than a person who tends to sheep. SHEPHERD information was like poetry to the ears of those in Skalm. From classified documents to inside information on key individuals within the Trigunian leadership, one could see why SHERPHERD and SHEPHERDESS were the prized possessions of SESO. “And how do I know whom this SHERPERD person is when I meet him?” Rasmus questioned. “He will meet you.” Westergaard replied. “He will be expecting you in Saint Anatoly Park tomorrow morning.” “Magnus, do not fuck this up. If you compromise SHEPHERD, I’m releasing Department D on you.” Department D was SESO’s special office dealing with assassinations and hunting down rogue agents. “Yeah, yeah. And I’m not Magnus anymore, I’m Rasmus, agricultural consultant.” He insisted. “Just don’t fuck this up.” Westergaard said before hanging up. Rasmus lay back on the couch and abandoned himself to the fatigue that enveloped him once more. As his eyes fought the struggle to remain open, he would soon succumb to their demands.

I do indeed need weaponry for I plan an audacious offensive against the Kazulia Empire and it’s foothold in Utembo. We need Anti-Aircraft guns,infantry equipment and artillery pieces. I am willing to pay 250 million dollars for 2000 AA guns,500,000 pieces of infantry equipment,and 4000 artillery pieces.

Kamnan Babpiboon, Prime Minister of Hanzen, in phone call with King Wangdue of Xsampa

What?! You crazy?! You dumb?! You dumb king! You stupid! You don't know just 2 thousand aa guns cost 1 billion? You dumb!? Can't count? Can't add?! Don't buy gun, buy calculator. Buy accountant. You dumb king. Get more money then talk. Or small order. Make small order for 250 million. You don't know how use these anyway. So don't need so many. Make small order. Meet me Whale Island by World Congress building. Bring suitcase 250 million cash. I give you small weapons there. Thats all you afford. Bitch betta have my money!